


Yours in a landslide

by flowerdeluce



Category: Ideal Home (2018)
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Panic Attacks, Porn with Feelings, Rare Male Slash Exchange, sex as a coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25071538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowerdeluce/pseuds/flowerdeluce
Summary: Five times Bill is a total cockblock, and one time Paul and Erasmus have the house to themselves.
Relationships: Erasmus Brumble/Paul Morgan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 30
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Yours in a landslide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [education](https://archiveofourown.org/users/education/gifts).



> The title is from State Lines by Novo Amor.
> 
> Thanks a million to asuralucier and ictus for beta reading <3

With their first-aid kit propped under his arm, Paul strode back inside, passing Erasmus where he hovered nervously inside the patio doors.

“Is he all right?”

“He’s fine. Just a graze.”

Erasmus sighed in relief. “Thank God.”

As Paul’s eyes adjusted from being out in the afternoon sun, he returned the kit—minus one dinosaur-pattern Band-Aid—to its high kitchen cupboard. They’d heard the kid yelp outside while Erasmus was making lunch. All the burners were off now, the onions he’d been caramelizing only lightly browned in the pan. A head of radicchio lay on the chopping board beside an unused knife, the rest of the ingredients lined up neatly on the counter beside them. It was unlike Erasmus to abandon a meal once he’d started preparing it.

“I don’t know if there’s something wrong with me,” Erasmus said, and any sentence beginning like that was bound to end in there being something exceptionally wrong with him, “but watching you be all fatherly with him has made me go all . . . gooey.”

“Gooey?”

“You know. Broody.”

Paul blinked. “Never refer to yourself as broody in my presence again.” He shook his head and set off for the study, because he did actually have stuff to do, like calls to make and budgets to sign off on—you know, actual work stuff that didn’t involve sticking Band-Aids over scraped elbows. Over his shoulder, he added, “Or gooey!”

Erasmus was hot on his heels, tugging at his sleeve. “You’re so good with him,” he said, still sounding, what was it, enamored?

Paul raised his eyebrows as Erasmus crowded in close, almost pressing him against the hallway wall. He was more surprised when he kissed him, a hand bracing his face.

“He likes you more than he likes me,” Erasmus said quietly, though his ego didn’t seem bruised, and his ego bruised in a light breeze. If anything, he seemed to admire the fact. He thumbed Paul’s cheekbone while his dark eyes drank him in.

“That’s not true,” Paul said, letting himself enjoy the unexpected attention. “You’re the fun one. I’m the nag.”

“Our relationship in a nutshell?”

“Shut up.”

“Yes,” Erasmus said with a contented hum against Paul’s lips. “Shutting up.” It lasted all of two seconds. “You being sweet with him is . . . quite something.”

“You really are broody, aren’t you?” Just saying it made Paul want to shudder; he actually did when Erasmus’s fingers spread over his crotch, rubbing with slow, appreciative strokes.

“Well,” Erasmus said, “my feathers are certainly ruffled.”

Paul tried not to press up into Erasmus’s palm. There was a time and a place for this, and it wasn’t now, especially with a kid around. “Maybe later we can—”

“Why later?” Erasmus whispered, pressing Paul back against the wall. Paul’s shoulder knocked the corner of their original Remington and the frame scraped the plaster as it fell crooked. Such disrespect for art would usually have Erasmus in a state of total panic; currently, he barely noticed.

“Why not now?” Erasmus kissed him again, murmuring, “Now, now, now” against his lips. Desperation positively thrummed through Erasmus as he kneaded at Paul’s fly, the warmth of what was threatening to be a hard-on chasing the insistent touch. “What’s he doing out there?”

Paul’s voice came out strangled. “Swimming.” He cleared his throat, tipped his head back against the wall, and bit his lip. Maybe they could get away for ten minutes . . .

Their belt buckles clinked as Paul arched his hips and pulled Erasmus in by his waist and a handful of his hair, grinding against him. Fuck work when Erasmus was in one of these unpredictable moods. The kid wouldn’t miss them. Ruffling Erasmus’s feathers further, in the privacy of their bedroom, would be an ideal stress reliever right now.

“I want a normal Band-Aid,” the kid said, beside them like he’d teleported from the pool, as uninvited as the night he’d arrived at Paul’s party. “These dinosaur ones suck.”

They pulled apart abruptly, Erasmus sweeping his hair into place while Paul straightened his shirt.

Fist pressed to his mouth, Paul willed away the tension that’d built in his pants and managed a, “Sure,” shooting Erasmus a look. “I told you he was too old for dinosaur ones.”

Erasmus huffed, hands on hips. “I thought boys liked dinosaurs?”

“Nope,” the kid said with a confident shake of his freckled face. “We like Roblox, slime, and PewDiePie.”

Erasmus’s eyes glazed briefly, like he was trying to translate Latin or do long division in his head. “Um, noted. But I believe the main takeaway from this is: no more dinosaur Band-Aids?”

“Right,” the kid said, peeling the decorative dressing from his elbow and handing it to Paul.

“Right,” Paul and Erasmus said in unison.

*

Erasmus’s arm was around him, his hand pressed ever so lightly against Paul’s chest.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, voice calm and comforting. His breath flooded hotly over the nape of Paul’s neck. “Aren’t you?”

Paul wanted to placate him with a simple ‘yes’ or even a nod, but the whole not being able to breathe thing left him unable to do anything but focus on the points where Erasmus’s body touched his: his hand resting on his diaphragm, chin prodding his shoulder, the warm press of his chest against his back. It helped, a little.

The pills weren’t kicking in. Maybe he should call 911. His things didn’t usually take this long to pass. Maybe it was something else this time. Something worse. Something that’d—

“In through your nose,” Erasmus soothed, and Paul met his gaze in their en suite’s mirror, stared at the badly concealed concern heavy in his eyes. “Press up into my hand.”

Trying his hardest, Paul inhaled, filling his chest with air until his ribs raised against Erasmus’s palm. The air released in a painful, shaky rush, but Erasmus whispered something encouraging, pressed a kiss to his neck as Paul managed another deep breath in for him again.

His muscles began to loosen. Breathing came that little bit easier. Miraculously, it was passing.

“See?” Erasmus said. “You’ve got this.”

That was the problem, wasn’t it? It was up to Paul to have self-control, to be responsible not only for himself but for a whole other person. Bill, if they were going to call him that, looked up at him and saw an adult, someone who was supposed to know what he was doing. This whole mess proved he had no clue.

Paul’s chest tightened again, the pain making him hiss through his teeth, so he gripped the sink’s edge and held on. He had to fight this. He _could_ fight this. He always had before, but the pain wasn’t subsiding. Numbness prickled inside his fingertips, his vision blurred at the edges, and it terrified him.

“Come on.” Erasmus’s voice again, drawing him back to reality. “In through your nose.”

Through gritted teeth, Paul groaned. It was a groan of impatience, anger, and fear all rolled into one, and the loud, unpleasant sound echoed from the tiles, making Erasmus jolt behind him. The groan wasn’t aimed at him; Erasmus was only trying to help, but this was one of those times when his softly softly approach wasn’t doing any good. Erasmus shushed him patiently, pressed closer against him, and . . . was, was that . . .

“What the fuck?” Paul said, jerking away from what was unmistakably Erasmus’s erection prodding him in the back.

Erasmus’s embarrassed reflection averted its gaze. “Ignore that.”

“Are you – trying to be inappropriate – at all times,” Paul asked, pausing to breathe, “or is impropriety merely – thrust upon you?”

“How can I be blamed for this?” Erasmus threw up his arms as though it was outrageous of Paul to demand he ever show restraint. “You’re the one who manages to look positively gorgeous even when you’re having one of your, things.”

“Well, thanks.” Either the pills were kicking in or snapping at Erasmus was that cathartic, because Paul no longer thought he’d keel over any second. When he turned to perch against the sink, he even managed a disapproving glance at the tent in Erasmus’s robe.

Erasmus wrapped the silk tighter around his middle. “I didn’t do it to spite you, I promise.”

Paul said nothing. He concentrated on steadying his breathing and allowed his gaze to linger on the flush creeping up Erasmus’s throat, caused by either embarrassment or arousal. Whichever it was, seeing him all hot and bothered was so very, very satisfying.

“Maybe we shouldn’t waste it?” Erasmus said, slinking closer. “I mean, only if you’re feeling better, of course.”

Crossing his arms, Paul asked in a flat tone, “What did you have in mind?” His heart continued pounding high in his chest, like it was stuck in his throat or lodged behind his eyes, but this conversation was an ideal distraction from his body being an uncooperative piece of shit.

“Well, there’s this other technique that requires a lot of breathing through the nose.” Erasmus gesticulated vaguely, managing to look absolutely certain his suggestion wasn’t awfully bad taste while also preparing for Paul to blow up any second, carefully treading that delicate line he usually danced along. “Because, when the mouth is otherwise engaged . . . You, you get the picture.”

Arms still folded across his chest, Paul didn’t react. Instead, he thoroughly enjoyed the few seconds he indulged in watching Erasmus squirm, not knowing if he’d annoyed him or not: a wonderfully calming sight.

Erasmus crumbled under the pressure. “I’m joking!” he huffed, with one of those snorty fake laughs he acquired around unfunny company. “Unless you’re not angry, in which case.” He gestured to his groin. “It might take your mind off things?”

“You really are unbelievable.” Paul shook his head, but the smile he couldn’t keep from his face gave him away. He spread his hands, acquiescing. “Would you settle for a handjob?”

Erasmus was all over him in a second, pulling Paul’s arms apart and sliding them to his waist in excitement. “That’s like asking if I want a cranberry vinaigrette or white truffle balsamic,” he said into Paul’s beard, nosing along his jaw.

“. . . Both good, but in different ways?”

“Exactly.”

A car engine roared on the other side of the bathroom door, followed by some cheerful, tinny music. They froze.

Paul was the one who braved pushing the door open.

Bill was sat slumped in front of the Xbox, the screen bathing the bedroom in pale light as he navigated a menu to soup-up a virtual vehicle.

With as firm as voice as he could muster, Paul asked, “What’re you doing?”

The controller clattered to the floor as Bill leaped to his feet, eyes wide. “I thought you’d gone out!”

“What?” Paul blinked.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“Who goes out and leaves a ten-year-old on their own?” Paul stepped around the end of the bed. “Actually,” he said, raising both palms in surrender, “don’t answer that.” Bill continued staring, arms hanging by his sides in that silent, unreadable way of his. “Everything okay?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Sitting in front of screens won’t help you with that,” Paul said in sympathy, having flashbacks of the editing room and all the footage he had to work through: another source of anxiety he didn’t need right now. He picked up the controller and jabbed at its buttons, hoping the console would shut off or at least be quieter. “Come on,” he said, patting Bill’s head. “Back to bed.”

“’Kay.”

As Bill shuffled off down the hall to the room they’d made up for him, Paul was left with the task of shutting off the Xbox, which was turning out to be much trickier than first anticipated. How hard could it be, really? One of these buttons had to do something.

“Uh . . .” A race began, the camera panning around a line-up of cars revving before a chequered starting line. “I didn’t— Fuck.” The lights turned green, cars screeching around the one that sat motionless. “Oh, come on.”

He was a director. He’d mastered equipment and software so advanced it could probably make him breakfast, but this simple game controller had him stumped. What was he, a hundred?

Erasmus was still in the bathroom, probably applying that eyebrow tinting oil he swore he never used, so Paul pushed the door open and waved the controller at him. “How do you turn this thing off?”

Erasmus pouted. Glancing down at where his robe still stuck out awkwardly, he said in a defeated tone, “I could ask myself the same question.”

*

Rain battered the window, forcing Paul to speak above a whisper to be heard.

“I swear you wear these just to annoy me,” he said, sliding a finger under the waist of Erasmus’s tight, white, and decidedly ugly briefs.

It had been an exceptionally humid day, so the storm was almost inevitable. The air was so thick with static you could almost hear it buzzing, though that could’ve been the big glass of red Paul had with their meal, then his second that more or less finished the bottle. Neither of them needed the covers tonight, hence the unobstructed and lovely view of Erasmus’s package—if you ignored the underwear, which Paul always did.

“No,” Erasmus huffed, turning towards him on the bed. “I wear them because they’re comfortable.”

“Ooh, comfort. That’s so _sexy_.”

“I don’t hear you complaining,” Erasmus said, eying the semi Paul was making no efforts to hide and reaching across to rub it through his boxers. “Well, I do actually, all the time! I should just take these off, shouldn’t I? Get them out of your sight.”

Leaning in to mouth kisses along Erasmus’s collarbone, Paul said, “Maybe you should. Then throw them in the trash. With some gasoline preferably, and a match.” A roll of thunder broke across the valley as though it agreed with him.

“That doesn’t sound very Health & Safety of you.” Erasmus’s hand slipped under Paul’s shorts, a warm palm gently working him to fullness as a flash of lightning lit the room a brilliant white.

“Fuck Health & Safety.” His kisses trailed along Erasmus’s neck and beneath his chin. When he drew his lower lip into his mouth and sucked softly, Erasmus’s high, helpless whine had Paul’s dick twitching in his hand.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Erasmus breathed.

“Oh, I’m going to.”

Paul mistook the sound of their bedroom door flying open for another crash of thunder. It took Erasmus pushing him away and tugging the covers over him for him to notice Bill standing in silhouette at the foot of the bed like something out of _Paranormal Activity_.

“I’m not scared,” Bill said in a rush, breathing fast. “I just want to be in here.”

“Understood,” Erasmus said, managing a reassuring smile for Bill’s sake. His disappointment over not currently having his legs wrapped around Paul’s hips was palpable, but his apologetic glance over at him made it clear he wasn’t sending the kid away.

It was clear Bill had no intention of leaving either. As rain streaked the windows behind him, he gripped the foot of the bedframe, looking between Paul and Erasmus, hopeful and desperate, as though they might somehow have the power to make the storm go away.

“. . . So,” Erasmus said, never able to allow a growing silence to get awkward. He blinked, trying to find something to say, when a crash of thunder spoke for him.

Bill sped to Erasmus’s side of the bed, pressing his face into his shoulder as the inevitable flash of lightning followed. Erasmus braced an arm around him, peering back at Paul with an excited expression that said, _he came to me! He actually came to me!_

“I’m not scared,” Bill said again, clinging to his grandfather.

“That’s a relief isn’t it,” Erasmus said, in the smooth, reassuring tone he usually saved for when Paul had one of his things. It was strange hearing him use it for someone else. “Because thunder isn’t scary. Thunder is . . . well, it’s like Paul.” Oh, here we go. “It likes to think it’s scary, but it’s actually benign.”

He shouldn’t say it, he _really_ shouldn’t but, “Like that lump you found on your taint.”

“Paul!” Erasmus’s eyes flashed in irritation.

“What’s a taint?” Bill asked.

Paul stifled his laugh with the back of his hand, avoiding Erasmus’s death glare and Bill’s wide-eyed curiosity. Another boom of thunder saved the moment turning awkward again.

*

Paul bent the cardboard box’s flaps back and sighed. This was actually happening.

They began the task in silence befitting the gravity of the occasion. Erasmus took a DVD from the shelf, glanced at its cover, passed it across to Paul, then into the box it went. They still hadn’t decided if they’d donate their porn collection to charity or hand it to one of those companies that sells your stuff online for a cut off the profit. Hell, they might even give it to Tino as part of his Christmas bonus.

Whatever the outcome, once this box was taped up and out of Bill’s reach, the problem of its contents was solved. The problem of being bereft of accessible pornography would remain. Parenthood was a bitch.

Erasmus slumped into a chair with a sigh, picking aimlessly at its worn leather arm. He’d managed five whole DVDs before giving up and leaving Paul to bid au revoir to the rest. To be fair to him, most of the collection was Paul’s. Never stopped him enjoying it, though.

“There’s more than I thought,” Paul said, surveying the mountain of DVDs they had to sort through. “We could start a library.”

“That would make us librarians,” Erasmus said, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs at the knee. “Welcome,” he proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, “to Santa Fe’s most exclusive library of pornography. Are you interested in vintage erotica or something more contemporary? Which category of depravity would you care to peruse today?”

Paul pulled a DVD from the shelf. “ _SherCock Holmes_. One for you?”

“Ugh, no.” Erasmus grimaced. “The accents were _awful_. Like a Liverpudlian impersonating someone from Bethnal Green.”

“I have . . . no idea what you just said.”

 _SherCock Holmes_ went into the box atop the neat stack of cases Paul had started in one corner. He took another from the shelf and examined the screengrabs on its back.

“ _Game of Bones_. That one was fun. Unless I’m confusing it with _Gay of Thrones_. They really bought into that.” Adding it to the box, he plucked the next case from the shelf and held it out for Erasmus to view: _Butt Pirates of the Caribbean_.

Erasmus sank back dismissively. “It wasn’t filmed anywhere close to the Caribbean Sea. It wasn’t even on a boat!”

Paul tsked. “And I bet none of the actors have ever raided a seafaring vessel either.”

A weak knock sounded at the door.

“I thought we asked not to be disturbed?” Erasmus called out, crossing the room. He unlocked the door and peered out into the hall. “We’re getting rid of the scary DVDs, remember?”

“Sorry,” came Bill’s voice from the other side. “Can I go in the pool?”

“Yes, of course. Ask one of the staff to sit with you.”

“Okay.”

Locking the door again, Erasmus leaned back against its heavy, carved wood with a defeated sigh. They both knew this would be difficult, but Erasmus seemed to be taking it worse. During Erasmus’s brief conversation with his grandson, Paul had added a few of the movies he knew he didn’t care for to the box to speed things along.

Paul laughed as he read the next title aloud and with feeling, hoping to cheer Erasmus up a little. “ _Dawson’s Crack_.”

Erasmus pushed himself from the door, expression brighter. He approached the shelf and ran his fingertip down the spines. “How do they expect us to take that seriously? I mean—” he slid another case from the stack “— _69 Shades of Gay_. That’s hilarious.”

The task moved quicker with them both sorting. Erasmus read some of the titles aloud as he tossed them into the box, ignoring Paul’s neat stacking system. “ _Alladick_. _Good Will Humping_. And who could forget the inimitable _Lord of Your Ring_?”

“I like that one a lot,” Paul said.

“You would, darling.”

Paul smiled when he reached the DVD at the bottom of the stack he was working through. “ _Dick Hard_ ,” he said, full of nostalgia. He’d watched it many times over the years.

“What’s it supposed to be parodying?”

“ _Die Hard_.”

Erasmus frowned. “That, also sounds like porn?”

“You’ve seen _Die Hard_.” If he hadn’t, he was seeing _Die Hard_. “Set at Christmas?” Affecting his best Alan Rickman impersonation, he added, “‘Ho. Ho. Ho’. A classic.”

“Oh, yes, yes I’ve seen that. The tension between the leads was enchanting.” He got distracted by _Forrest Hump_ , the cover of which he gazed at with great longing. “There’re some lovely landscape shots in this one. They must’ve had a good locations manager.”

The pile grew, such gripping titles as _Desperate Househusbands_ , _Twink Peaks_ , and _The Porne Identity_ added to what would soon become a Pandora’s box of porn. A Porndora’s box.

Erasmus frowned at one of the cases, a bunch of kids in orange boiler suits on the cover. “‘Walt Disney presents: _Holes_ ’, with Sigourney Weaver?”

“I ordered that by mistake. Give it to Bill.”

Erasmus put it to one side, his confused expression disappearing when he encountered the next DVD that wasn’t a kids’ movie with a questionable name. “Ah, _Throbbin’ Hood_ ,” he said with a sigh.

“One of your favorites, if I remember right?”

Erasmus stared lovingly at the cover. “Do we really have to get rid of them all?”

Their hands touched atop _Throbbin’ Hood_ ’s awful cover design, Paul reaching out to comfort him in this difficult time. “However lame and annoying that Rebecca woman is—”

“Melissa,” Erasmus corrected. “No . . . Samantha.”

“Whatever. She’s got a point. We can’t keep this stuff around Bill.”

Erasmus sighed again, a touch more dramatic this time. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” He placed _Throbbin’ Hood_ into the box as if watching a casket lower into the ground at a funeral. It was almost painful to watch.

“If,” Paul said, pointing a finger at Erasmus to inform him that this was a big ‘if’, “we’re extra careful about it, maybe we could keep a _couple_ in the safe.”

After grabbing _Throbbin’ Hood_ from its almost grave, Erasmus leaned over the open box, a giant, toothy grin on his face like that damn dust jacket. He pecked a kiss to Paul’s cheek. “I love you.”

Paul smiled. “I am pretty loveable.”

*

Erasmus looked small and frail curled up like that, knees tucked against his chest. Paul didn’t want to get into the bed. He couldn’t.

He stalked through the house in the dark instead, past the towering Christmas tree and its bounty of presents Bill wouldn’t get to open tomorrow, and through to one of the kitchens. This wasn’t the one they usually congregated in as a family, the one overlooking the deck; it was one Paul visited to escape, a peaceful and modest nook far from the house’s main thoroughfare.

Feeling along the edge of the countertop in the dark, his searching fingers slid around a bottle of something alcoholic. The shape of the bottle’s cool glass suggested it was tequila, and from how it sloshed around inside, there was about half left. Chugging the whole thing was tempting, because then he wouldn’t have to contend with this grief. All he’d have to deal with was being skunk drunk, and he was an expert at that.

He put the bottle down, sliding it quietly back into place, but there was no need to be quiet, was there? Bill wouldn’t stir awake and come padding down the hallway. He wasn’t tucked up in his bed, dreaming happy dreams. He was speeding down some highway with his no-good father, towards who knew what kind of crappy horizon.

The house wasn’t empty, though. There was someone else here, and someone as devastated as he was. But how was he supposed to find the strength to hold Erasmus together when he felt a hurt so heavy it threatened to pull him to his knees?

Well, the answer was, he had to, didn’t he?

Bill’s bedroom door was open. Paul stood outside looking in at the clutter of Bill’s belongings, all illuminated by a single lamp. He’d stood in this spot many times before, checking if Bill was sleeping peacefully, pretending not to notice his Gameboy’s light glowing through his bedcovers. Bill’s absence pulled all the color from the room. It was just a bunch of stuff now, material shit. Paul had to close the door.

Hovering in his own bedroom doorway, Paul found the strength to cross the threshold, fighting the urge to escape again. The still, silent shape of Erasmus lay atop the covers, his back to him.

“My heart aches,” Erasmus said when Paul sat on the edge of the bed, still unable to get in. He sniffed, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of the robe he hadn’t yet taken off. “It physically aches.”

“Mine too.”

The curtains were closed, but a strip of moonlight crept through where they hadn’t quite met in the middle. Erasmus always left them like that. It was always Paul who had to get up and close them properly, and it was always Paul who got sun straight in his eyes the next morning if he forgot. He stared at the streak of pale light painting the dark rug, still and unwavering.

This was his tenth Christmas with Erasmus. It was almost unbelievable. A whole decade.

Of all the Christmases they’d spent together, this was the quietest. Well, it would’ve been if Beau hadn’t shown up. There was no arguing about which country to celebrate in, none of Erasmus practically pulling his hair out over what extravagant menu to serve or which guests to invite, no awkwardness with family obligations and invitations to things they didn’t want to go to. This year, it was about being together.

“Will you hold me?” Erasmus mumbled.

Spurred on by being needed, Paul crawled across the bed and slotted behind Erasmus, an arm draping his waist. It was the best he could do right now. Erasmus shuffled back into him, pulled his arm tighter around his chest.

“I can’t believe it,” Erasmus whispered. His breath hitched, and he turned his face into the sheet, the tiniest tremble moving through him.

Paul pressed his nose against the back of his neck. He wanted to say something comforting, anything, but he came up empty. If there was anything to say, he’d be saying it to himself.

The worst part was not knowing if they’d ever see Bill again. No. No, the worst part was knowing Bill was unhappy, didn’t want to leave, that his father was tearing him from the closest thing he’d had to something even resembling stability and throwing him into the unknown, again.

“I need—” Erasmus’s voice broke into a choked sob, and Paul couldn’t bear it.

Erasmus did everything with flamboyance. He had no filter, nothing close to a shy bone in his body. Him keeping everything inside was as devastating as the source of their shared misery.

“What do you need?” Paul asked, stroking his fingertips over Erasmus’s heart.

Drawing a shaking breath, Erasmus gripped the back of Paul’s hand. “I don’t know.” He squeezed Paul’s knuckles, grip tightening and softening. After a while, he turned to face him, his eyes glistening wet in the darkness.

Paul didn’t pull away when he reached for him. He let Erasmus guide his mouth to his, the touch uncertain. Closing his eyes, he went with it, understanding, finding relief in the familiar press of his lips in the same guarded way Erasmus was. Something physical might distract them from the pain for five minutes, shoo their devastation into a dark, dusty corner.

“I’m sorry,” Erasmus sighed, hand sliding into Paul’s boxers. “I just . . .”

“It’s okay.”

An arm wedged under Erasmus, he stroked the line of his shoulder blade through his robe, focusing on the heat of his skin beneath the silk, the softness of his lips, the touch of his coaxing fingers.

“You don’t have to,” Erasmus whispered against his mouth. Their foreheads pressed together, a sigh passing between them. “I don’t even . . .”

Paul kissed the words away. He didn’t need to hear them.

The weight of Erasmus’s body was a blessing when he rolled on top of him, pressing Paul back against the bed and holding him to the present, the here and now, where they had each other and were grateful for it. It made sense, somehow.

Hand still working Paul hard, Erasmus kissed his way down his chest, teeth dragging over his nipple through his t-shirt and drawing a gasp from him. Paul pressed his head back into the pillow, his body gradually responding despite the weight in his heart.

He untied Erasmus’s robe, reaching for him in the darkness. Running his palm from the notch between his collarbones down to his navel, he felt him breathe, the taut skin of his stomach soft to the touch. His St Christopher was body warm, the medallion swinging gently from his neck. Paul gripped it softly, then pulled him closer by its chain, seeking another kiss, needing one desperately. As soon as he let the chain go, Erasmus sat bolt upright.

“I’m so sorry,” Erasmus cried, crushing his hand over his mouth. He clambered off the bed, almost tripping on his robe’s cord as he rushed out.

Paul let him go.

Down the hall, the door to Bill’s bedroom creaked open before Erasmus closed it behind him. Then, silence.

Alone, Paul stared at the ceiling. The emptiness was stifling.

+1

A welcome breeze drifted through the windows, disturbing the flames of the pillared candles Erasmus had placed all around their bedroom. A nice touch if a little theatrical, but what was new?

Paul sucked Erasmus’s collarbone, deftly working lube into him with his fingers. This was the perfect end to a perfect evening: good wine, good conversation, no guests, and Bill away at a sleepover with friends. Having Erasmus all to himself was a treat. He’d almost forgotten what it was like.

Not far from the bed, the fireplace crackled invitingly. Earlier, Erasmus had watched Paul chop wood for it, splitting logs against an old stump in the wilder end of their backyard. There was nothing more masculine than a man chopping wood, he’d said. Paul had suggested building a fire from it and fucking him in front of it bettered that suggestion, to which Erasmus had deferred to what were clearly his superior primal instincts.

“Wanna go to the bearskin?” Paul whispered as Erasmus pulled him in for a weak, breathy kiss. The bearskin was Erasmus’s favorite place to make love; he said he was drawn to the symbolic joining of man and beast, or something.

“Who needs a bearskin when you’ve got a big bear on top of you already?”

Paul huffed a laugh, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Not sure I qualify. I’m not nearly hirsute enough.” He briefly mourned the loss of _Goldicocks and the Three Bears_ , one of the pornos lost in the Great Purge that always left Erasmus in a better mood. They didn’t need it now.

Easing Paul onto his back, a playful determination in his eyes, Erasmus teased, “Bears don’t talk.”

“Oh?”

“No, they growl.” Hooking a knee over Paul’s lap, Erasmus clawed his fingers, baring his teeth as he produced a feeble, “Grr.”

Paul tucked his arms behind his head. “Do they get overpowered by skinny British guys, too?” All it took was Erasmus sinking down onto his dick for Paul to breathe, “Apparently so.”

It was tempting to lie back and enjoy the rare show of Erasmus riding him the way he wished he could a bronco, but it had been so long since they’d done this; all he wanted to do was touch him. He smoothed both his hands up Erasmus’s soft, slender thighs. The seam of his pants had left a line imprinted in his skin, so Paul followed one with a fingertip until it faded, then pressed his thumbs into the warm notches beside his hipbones

Erasmus continued inching down, eyes falling closed while he breathed through it. It played across his face in little winces, his lips parting and closing, eyelashes fluttering, and god, he looked almost as good as he felt.

Their eyes met once Erasmus had all of him. Erasmus’s were glazed and overwhelmed, and they creased closed when Paul lifted his hips, the gentle movement drawing a sound from somewhere high in Erasmus’s throat, something between a whimper and a gasp. Erasmus pursed his lips to stifle it.

“No one here, remember?” Paul reminded him.

One of the best things about sex with Erasmus was his unreserved loudness, how vocally appreciative he was of a good fuck. Paul couldn’t stand the silent, restrained types. They were no fun.

Erasmus hissed when Paul lifted his hips again, sliding deeper into the warm, pleasantly tight depth of him. Paul sat up, propping himself on one arm as his other pulled him in for a kiss, aware Erasmus could manage nothing of the sort right now. Their chests came flush, the cool touch of Erasmus’s medallion a contrast to the hot length of his erection pressing into his belly like an iron bar.

As he drove deeper, Erasmus’s head fell back into Paul’s waiting hand. Paul squeezed a handful of his hair in his fist and held him still, sucking wet kisses along his neck while Erasmus’s pulse thrummed against his lips. The taste of his skin, damp with fresh sweat, had Paul gripping him tighter, messily tonguing the line of his throat.

They rocked together, calm, slow, and Erasmus groaned with his every breath, holding nothing back.

“Good?” Paul asked despite knowing the answer. He loved hearing Erasmus try to form words when he was this overwhelmed.

“Mmmm,” was all Erasmus managed, his Adam’s apple sliding beneath Paul’s mouth as he swallowed against the onslaught of kisses. He lifted his head from Paul’s hand, tongue sliding around the outline of lips before breathing a hoarse, “Yeah.”

Paul would never not appreciate how monosyllabic Erasmus became when he was full of his dick. He’d kept a loose grip on Paul’s shoulders so far, but he used their shared breather to slide a hand to his face, thumb rasping over those short hairs at his temple and sending a shiver through him. His other hand moved to his bicep, squeezing appreciatively. “So good.”

Sinking his teeth into the warm flesh of Erasmus’s shoulder, Paul was rewarded with a moan almost as satisfying as the shuddering clench of his ass around his dick. He licked a soothing stripe over where he’d bitten, using the distraction to thrust up hard. Erasmus felt amazing, slick and open and _his_ , his breath washing over Paul’s shoulders as he gasped for more. And oh, he was going to get it.

Arms trembling from the effort, Paul bucked up into him. Erasmus’s whine was one he’d deem most undignified if he weren’t being fucked so well he couldn’t think straight; exactly what Paul wanted.

The firelight lit one side of them, making Erasmus’s sweat-damp skin glow. Paul drew his hand through that amber halo, following it over each of Erasmus’s ribs, up into the grey hairs at his temple that looked so goddamn gorgeous on him.

Their mouths found each other while Erasmus’s fingertip traced the slightly raised ink of Paul’s wrist tattoo before linking their fingers. It was a gentle, unrushed almost-kiss, lips brushing, gliding, breaking apart with a mutually hissed curse when Paul thrust up into the molten heat of Erasmus’s body.

And, fuck, Paul was close. It really had been a long time since they’d done this.

Making himself slow down, he squeezed Erasmus’s waist, then a delicious handful of his backside, still gripping his hand tight. He caught a glimpse then of what they’d had in the old days, back when they were still discovering each other, with all the privacy and time they needed to do so. They hadn’t made the most of it then, but they were making up for it now.

“Do it,” Erasmus whispered, wet lips brushing Paul’s ear. Because the thing about knowing each other inside out was Erasmus always knew when Paul was holding back.

The unexpected touch of Erasmus’s fingers beneath his chin had him looking up, their eyes locking as Paul lost every bit of his composure. Erasmus’s eyes were as warm as the burning fire, dazzling and intense, the heat of his gaze drawing an “I love you” from Paul’s tongue, “so fucking much” tumbling after, until Erasmus’s mouth covered his and Paul was spilling inside him, falling into the flames.

When he could breathe again, Erasmus was kissing his forehead, holding him together with uncommonly steady hands. They stayed there, content to just be, breathing each other’s air and melting into the heat of the other’s skin. Even as Erasmus pushed up onto his knees and moved to lie at Paul’s side, he kept a gentle hold of his face, bringing him with him.

It didn’t take long for Erasmus’s neediness to break through the haze fogging Paul’s head and that post-coital weight dragging his limbs into the mattress. He smiled when his hand was drawn insistently to Erasmus’s crotch as a reminder: you’re not finished here, darling.

Paul stroked him slow and steady, silently impressed by how hard he remained, giving his balls a gentle squeeze just to feel him gasp against his cheek. No matter how exhausted he was, Paul wouldn’t leave Erasmus hungry, so to speak.

Thumbing circles around the head of his dick, he spread the wetness gathered there, kneaded it into the soft skin until Erasmus grabbed him urgently, fingers tightening against his waist.

Erasmus coming apart had Paul’s arms prickling with goosebumps. He devoured that sound, the way his plump lips parted and went slack, the hot slide of his come trickling over the backs of his knuckles.

He’d missed this. Missed Erasmus. Missed their shared calm afterwards.

For a while, the only sounds were their steadying breaths and the firewood popping in the hearth. Perfect.

When Paul was almost drifting off, Erasmus asked, “You think he’s okay?”

“Bill? Yeah. He’s fine.” He stroked Erasmus’s shoulder with his thumb. “He’s having a great time.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, I didn’t tell you? We have a telepathic connection. We set it up a couple weeks ago. The signal’s great.”

Erasmus slapped his belly lightly.

“Yeah, he’s . . .” Paul pressed two fingers to his temple and narrowed his eyes. “He’s telling me he’s fine, he’s just about to go to bed—” he nodded along with each of Bill’s so-called thoughts as they arrived “—they ordered pizza, watched a movie, and . . . please, please, _please_ tell Erasmus to . . . make Paul breakfast in bed tomorrow?” He raised a hand in disbelief and was rewarded with another light-hearted slap.

Taking Erasmus’s wrist, he pinned it against the sheet, but not before Erasmus wrestled free and tickled his armpit: the coward’s way out.

“Wait, wait!” Paul gasped, the shock on his face halting Erasmus’s wriggling fingers. “He’s also saying: stop putting so much cilantro in your scrambled eggs.”

Erasmus pushed his head back into his pillow and barked a laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

“Cilantro goes with everything!”

Paul smiled and kissed his cheekbone. “I know.”


End file.
